AUNT    LIEFY 


BY 

ANNIE    TRUMBULL    SLOSSON 

Author  of  "  FishM  Jimmy,"  etc. 


Illustrations 
BY  G.  F-RANDOLPH 


NEW    YORK 

ANSON   I).  F.  RANDOLPH   &   CO. 

(INCORPORATED) 
182  FIFTH  AVENUE 


^12S  ^J 

S  " 

• — '  ,5*  . 


^ 


Copyright,  1892, 
BY   AXSON   D.   F.  RANDOLPH  &  Cc 

(INCORPORATED.) 


anifarrstts  JBrrss  : 
IOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


It  don't  seem  as  if  1  lieerd  the  words'' 

Frontispiece 
That  same  little  red   house  just  out  of  the 

village ' 9 

All  my  neighbors  had  posy  gardens ''    ...  12 

Was  hearin'  a  man  speakin  '  '       .                .     .  16 

Gold'n   Rod.  ye  know  " 24 

She  told  me  to  give  you  this"            .          .     .  38 
My  winders  and  porch  so  chock  full  of  grow 
ing  things " 44 

Lame  Posie  and  foolish  Nance,  and  that  lit 
tle  rickety  Dan" 45 


AUNT     LIEFY. 


I. 

I  DON'T  know  how  it  come  about 
exactly ;  mebbe  't  was  because  I 
never  rec'lected  any  folks  of  my  own. 
Or  again,  pVaps  't  was  owin'  to  the 
people  where  I  lived  not  bein'  of  the 
sociable  sort.  Or  mebbe,  likely  's  not, 
't  was  all  the  fault  of  my  own  queer, 
cross-grained,  hard-to-get-along-with 
natur'.  But  tennerate,  there  'twas,  - 
a  fact  well  known  to  me  and  other 
folks,  that  I  was  the  lonesomest  crca- 
tur'  that  ever  lived.  I  hadn't  a  real 
friend  on  the  airth  ;  more  'n  that,  I 
had  n't  scursely  any  acquaintances. 


8  Aunt  Liefy. 

Folks  in  the  village  and  town  knew 
who  I  was,  most  of  'em,  and  I  knew 
their  names  and  some  of  their  faces ; 
but  that  was  about  all. 

You  asked  me  for  just  one  partic'- 
lar  part  of  my  story,  and  I  'm  goin'  to 
give  it  to  you.  As  for  the  rest,  why, 
there  's  no  call  for  me  to  go  into  that 
now,  and  I  ain't  a-or>in'  to.  How  I 

O 

come  to  be  there  in  Hilton,  without 
any  one  belongin'  to  me,  or  a  soul  in 
the  whole  world  to  set  by  me,  or  me 
to  set  by,  why  all  that 's  another  story, 
so  \ve  '11  let  it  alone  now.  And  I  '11 
begin  just  here,  when  I  was  a  grown 
up  woman,  hard  featur'd  and  harder 
natur'd,  not  liked  by  anybody,  and 
not  havin',  myself,  a  mite  of  int'rest 
in  any  one  on  this  airth  or  outside  of 
it.  Never  mind  what  I  done  for  a 
livin' ;  I  got  along.  I  had  enough  to 
eat  and  drink,  and  clo'es  to  wear ;  and 


Aunt  Liefy.  9 

I  was  n't  •  beholden  to  anybody.  I 
lived  by  myself  in  that  same  little  red 
house  just  out  of  the  village  where 
you  fust  see  me,  —  the  lonesomest 


creatur'.  as  I  said  afore,  that  God  ever 
made.  My  whole  name,  you  know, 
is  Relief  Staples  ;  but 't  was  years  and 
years  since  I  'd  heard  the  fust  part. 
I  was  "  Miss  Staples "  to  the  whole 
town  ;  and  yet  't  was  n't  the  kind  of 


io  Aunt  Liefy. 

place  where  they  give  folks  sech 
names  gen'rally.  Other  single  women 
of  my  age  —  old  maids  I  suppose  you  'd 
call  'em  —  was  Ann  Nichols  or  Lizzy 
Mount  or  Hopey  Palmer;  and  the 
married  ones  was  Aunt  this  or  Aunty 
that  or  Mother  somebody.  But  I 
was  allers  "  Miss  Staples "  to  man, 
woman,  and  child,  speakin'  about  me, 
or  to  me,  no  matter  which.  And, 
queer  enough,  I  never  thought  of 
myself  by  any  other  name.  I  'd  most 
forgot  I  was  Relief  at  all ;  for  I  even 
signed  my  name  —  to  a  bill  or  paper, 
I  never  writ  a  letter —  R.  Staples. 

I  don't  seem  to  remember  much 
about  when  I  was  a  girl.  There  was 
reasons  that  have  n't  got  anything  to 
do  with  this  story,  why  I  was  diffent 
from  the  other  children.  Strangers 
that  come  along  and  die  right  in  the 
public  roads,  and  leave  young  ones 


Aunt  Liefy.  n 

too  little  to  know  their  own  names  or 
where  they  come  from,  can't  expect 
their  children  to  be  fav'rites  in  the 
c'mmunity,  especially  if  they  're  put 
in  among  the  town-poor  at  fust.  I 
know  I  got  some  schoolin'  at  the  lit 
tle  deestrict  school  on  the  north  road ; 
but  I  don't  rec'lect  much  about  the 
other  children  playin'  with  me,  or 
callin'  me  by  my  fust  name,  as  they 
done  one  'nother  in  the  games  or  in 
spellin'  and  readin'.  I  don't  b'lieve  I 
liked  'em  much  or  them  me ;  for  after 
I  growed  up  I  allers  had  a  dislike  to 
young  ones,  and  they  returned  it  every 
speck.  Fact  is,  I  can't  remember  lik- 
in'  anything  much  in  them  days.  I 
done  my  work  without  takin'  much 
notice  of  it ;  I  eat  my  meals,  some 
times  one  place,  sometimes  another, 
settin'  or  standin',  or  workin'  about,  as 
I  felt  like  it.  I  went  to  bed  and  got 


12 


Aunt  Liefy. 


up  ;  that  was  my  life.     All  my  neigh 
bors  had  posy  gardens,  and  most  of 


'em  had  flowers  in  the  house  too ;  but 
I  never  thought  of  sech  a  thing. 
What  was  the  use  of  it  ?  I  went  to 
meetin'  sometimes  ;  because  —  well,  I 


Aunt  Liefy.  13 

don't  seem  to  rec'lect  why  I  did  go, 
but  I  did.  But  it  did  n't  interest  me, 
and  I  did  n't  take  no  great  notice  of 
what  went  on.  That  it  meant  much 
of  anything  to  me,  myself,  never  come 
into  my  head  in  those  days. 


Aunt  Liefy. 


II. 

I'M  leavin'  out,  as  I  said  afore, 
everything  that  has  n't  really  got 
to  do  with  my  story.  So  I  need  n't 
stop  to  tell  you  how  it  come  about 
that  I  was  trav'lin'  one  day,  —  the  day 
my  story  really  begins,  —  on  a  kind  of 
business  errand,  over  the  Middle  rail 
road,  nor  how  I  come  to  get  off  at  the 
wrong  station  ;  but  there  I  was.  I 
meant  to  go  to  Wellsville.  I  'd  been . 
there  afore  and  knew  how  it  looked ; 
and  the  train  had  n't  hardly  started 
after  leavin'  me  before  I  see  I  was 
wrong.  There  was  n't  any  real  depot, 
only  a  kind  of  platform  to  wait  on, 
and  there  was  n't  a  soul  in  sight.  I 
looked  about  a  little,  and  then  I 


Aunt  Liefy.  75 

begun  to  walk  along  the  road,  not 
carin'  much  what  I  did.  My  business 
was  n't  pressin',  't  was  the  middle  of 
the  day  and  lots  of  daylight  ahead, 
so  I  jest  walked  slowly  along.  The 
road  was  an  uphill  one,  and  no  houses 
along  it  at  fust.  I  rec'lect  that, 
though  I  did  n't  notice  much  besides ; 
for  up  to  that  day,  you  know,  I  never 
did  notice  things.  But  that  was  the 
last  of  that  way  of  livin',  as  you  '11 
see  pretty  soon. 

It  was  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  early 
in  October,  and  as  I  could  tell  from 
what  come  arterwards,  the  trees  all 
along  the  way  was  red  and  yeller  and 
bright-lookin',  and  I  was  steppin'  on 
leaves  colored  the  same  way ;  but  I 
did  n't  seem  to  see  'em.  I  don't  know 
how  long  or  how  fur  I  walked,  or  what 
I  was  thinkin'  about.  Somehow  it 
don't  seem  as  if  I  ever  was  thinkin' 


1 6  Aunt  Liejy. 

much    about    anything    those    times. 

*-  £-j 

Mebbe  my  mind  run  a  little  on  that 
piece  of  business  I  was  goin'  to  attend 
to,  or  some  work  I  'd  promised  to  do, 
I  don't  remember. 

The  fust  thing  that  stands  out,  as  I 
look  back  now,  was  hearin'  a  man 
speakin'.  He  was  in  a  buggy;  but  I 
had  n't  noticed  the  sound  of  wrheels, 
and  he  was  close  up  to  me  comin' 
clown  the  road  facin'  me,  as  if  he  was 
on  the  way  to  the  station  I  'd  come 
from,  'fore  I  see  him.  He  rl rawed  up 
ri^ht  alongside  of  me.  He  was  an 

O  O 

oldish  man,  with  a  pleasant-lookin' 
kind  of  face,  only  a  mite  solemn  and 
sorry  like,  and  he  says,  "  I  'm  so  glad 
you  Ve  got  here.  They  Ve  waited, 
thinkin'  you  might  be  on  this  train. 
I  'm  goin'  on  to  tell  the  minister,  or 
I  'd  give  you  a  lift;  but  some  one '11 
meet  you."  And  then,  'fore  I  'd  had 


A  nut  Liefy.  ig 

time  to  say  anything,  he  says,  in  a  low 
sort  of  voice,  u  I  'm  dreadful  sorry  for 
you  ;  we  all  be."  And  then  he  started 
his  horse  and  rode  away.  It  seems 
odd  now  that  I  did  n't  wonder  more 
about  what  he  meant,  or  ask  him 
somethin',  or  call  after  him  that  I 
guessed  he'd  made  a  mistake.  But, 
if  you  '11  believe  me,  all  I  could  think 
of  in  that  fust  minute  was  that  some 
body  was  waitin'  for  me  and  expectin' 
me  ;  somebody  was  glad  I  'd  come  ; 
and,  'bove  and  over  all,  somebody  was 
dreadful  sorry  for  me.  Not  one  of 
them  things,  's  fur's  I  kno\v,  had  ever 
happened  to  me  afore,  and  though  I 
made  sure  't  was  all  a  mistake,  some 
how  jest  for  a  minute  I  had  the 
comfortablest  feelin'  I  'd  ever  had  in 
my  life.  Comfortable  in  my  mind,  I 
mean ;  but  queer  enough,  it  made  me 
feel  weak  in  my  body  and  with  a  kind 


2O  Aunt  Liefy. 

of  choked-up,  s welly  throat.  I  walked 
along,  tryin'  to  think,  when  I  see  a 
carryall  comin'  down  the  road  towards 
me,  with  a  boy  drivin'. 

"  Oh,  there  you  be  !  "  he  says,  as 
he  stopped  the  old  horse.  "  Get  right 
in.  They  put  off  the  funeral,  you  see, 
thinkin'  you  might  get  here  on  this 
noon-train." 

I  stood  still  in  the  road,  lookin'  at 
him;  but  he  says,  "  Hurry!  Pa  told 
me  to  drive  quick ; "  and  I  got  in. 
I  don't  know  what  made  me  do  it. 
I  go  over  and  over  that  day  sometimes 
in  my  mind,  and  try  to  think  how 
't  was  I  fell  in  with  everything  so, 

j  O 

without  explainin'  or  askin'  questions. 
The  only  way  I  can  make  it  out  rea- 
s'nable  is,  that  I  was  so  took  up  with 
this  bein'  expected  and  took  notice  of 
and  made  much  on,  that  I  jest  let 
myself  have  the  comfort  of  it  all, 


Aunt  Liefy.  21 

without  savin'  or  doin'  a  thing  that 
might  'a'  stopped  it.  The  boy  did  n't 
say  much  ;  he  driv  fast,  shakin'  the 
reins  and  cluckin'  to  the  horse.  The 
road  was  pretty  rough,  and  the  wagon 
was  shackly  and  shook  about  and 
rattled,  and  we  could  n't  'a'  held  much 
talk  even  if  we  'd  had  a  mind  to. 
We  met  some  folks,  and  they  all 
looked  at  me  in  the  same  way,  kind 
of  int'rested  and  friendly,  but  allers 
sorry,  real  sorry,  —  that  was  what 
struck  me  most. 

"  They  Ve  mistook  me  for  somebody 
else,"  I  says  to  myself ;  "  but  I  can't 
help  likin'  it,  and  I  won't  tell  'em  jest 
for  a  spell.  It  feels  so  good  to  be 
looked  at  that  way.  I  '11  wait  a  minute 
'fore  I  tell  em."  Mebbe  I  did  n't  put 
it  into  jest  them  words,  but  I  was 
thinkin'  somethin'  most  like  that,  I 
know. 


22  Aunt  Liefy. 

All  of  a  sudden  the  boy  whoaed  his 
horse  and  stopped.  I  see  a  little  gal 
in  a  red  frock  runnin'  'crost  the  road 
and  holdin'  up  somethin'.  She  was 
all  out  of  breath  and  her  little  face 
red,  she  'd  run  so  ;  and  she  did  n't  say 
anythin',  on'y  reached  up  and  put 
somethin'  in  my  lap  and  run  off.  The 
boy  whipped  up.  and  \ve  went  on.  I 
looked  down  into  my  lap  and  see 
some  yeller  posies. 

"What  be  they?''  I  says,  more  to 
my  own  self  than  anything.  But  the 
boy,  he  says,  in  that  kind  of  way  boys 
does  when  they  're  sorry  and  most 
ashamed  of  bein',  "  Gold'nrod,  ye 
know,  that  she  set  so  much  by." 

Now    that   bloom    crrows   all   alon^ 

O  o 

the  roads  through  our  part  of  the 
country ;  but  somehow  I  had  n't  ever 
noticed  it  afore,  and  I  never  'd  heerd 
its  name, —  not  to  rec'lect  it.  And 


Aunt  Liefy.  23 

whoever  did  he  mean  by  "  she  "  ?  But 
that  give  me  a  little  more  to  hold  on 
by.  All  this  bein'  sorry  for  me,  and 
takin'  care  and  all,  had  somethin'  to  do 
with  this  somebody  he  spoke  of  as 
"  she."  I  begun  to  feel  dreadful  queer 
and  choky,  and  's  if  I  must  know  right 
straight  off  all  about  her,  and  what 

O 

had  happened.  It 's  a  mistake,  I  says 
to  myself,  but  oh,  I  jest  can't  let  on 
that  't  is  yet,  and  me  to  go  back  to 
bein'  no  account  to  anybody,  and 
never  wanted  or  expected  anywheres 
again. 

o 

We  kep'  meetin'  folks  :  but  they  all 
turned  's  quick  as  they  see  us,  and 
went  back  the  way  we  was  goin'. 
And  I  could  hear  teams  comin'  along 
behind  us  too. 

Bimeby  I  see  a  little  white  house 
ahead  and  a  good  many  men-folks 
standin'  round  it.  And  the  boy 


24  Aunt  Liefy. 

drawee!  up  in  front  of  that  house. 
Two  or  three  men  come  out  to  the 
carriage,  plain,  farmer-lookin'  men, 
with  kind  of  tanned,  weather-beat 


faces,  but  all  with  the  same  sort  of 
sorry  look,  and  I  see  they  was  goin' 
to  help  me  out.  I  'd  jest  been  a 
goin'  to  tell  'em  who  I  was  and  how 
'twas  all  a  mistake;  but  for  the  life 
of  me  I  could  n't  then. 


Aunt  Liefy.  25 

They  '11  find  me  out  in  a  minute, 
I  says  to  myself ;  but  I  can't  tell  'em 
now.  For  you  see,  in  all  my  born 
days  I  had  n't  ever  afore  been  helped 
out  of  anything,  and  I  wanted  to 
see  how  t  would  seem.  They  done 
it  real  gentle ;  and  somehow  they  led 
me  into  the  gate.  All  the  men  in 
the  front-yard,  they  stood  back  each 
side  of  the  path,  while  I  walked 
up  to  the  door.  I  had  n't  more  'n 
stepped  over  the  sill  into  the  entry, 
where  't  was  sort  of  dark,  when  I 
felt  somethin'  queer,  warm,  and  soft, 
and  wrappy  ;  and  I  see  I  was  in  some 
body's  arms.  'T  was  an  old  woman 
with  white  hair,  and  a  soft,  wrinkled 
face,  and  sech  a  mothery  look  all 
over  her,  —  I  wonder  how  my  mother 
looked;  and  she  put  her  face  up 
again1  mine,  and  I  felt  't  was  all  wet. 
I  don't  believe  I  'd  ever,  nfore  that, 


26  Aunt  Liefy. 

felt  anybody's  tears,  not  even  my 
own,  sence  I  was  a  baby. 

She  '11  say  somethin'  now,  I  thinks 
to  myself,  that  '11  show  me  where  the 
mistake  is ;  and  then  't  will  all  come 
out,  and  I  '11  jest  go  back.  But  she 
didn't  say  but  one  thing,  after  all. 
and  that  did  n't  help.  "  Oh,  my 
dear,  my  dear !  "  she  says.  That 
was  all. 

You  can't  blame  me  for  not  tellin' 
then,  not  jest  then,  can  you  ?  S'pose 
you  had  n't  ever  in  all  your  hull 
life  been  called  "  my  dear  ;  "  and  you 
was  all  kind  of  shakin'  and  chokin' 
and  cryey,  and  glad  and  sorry  to 
once  with  hearin'  it,  could  you  go 
and  spile  it  right  straight  off  by 
ownin'  up  you  hadn't  no  claim  to 
it  ?  Well,  I  could  n't  any  way. 

She  took  me  into  a  little  bedroom 
and  put  me  in  a  chain  She  said 


Aunt  Liefy.  27 

there  was  plenty  of  time  for  me  to 
rest  a  spell  ;  for  folks  had  got  to  be  let 
know  I  was  come,  and  that  the  fun'ral 
could  go  on.  She  untied  my  bun  net- 
strings,  and  unpinned  my  shawl. 
She  clone  a  lot  of  things  to  me 
that  I  did  n't  hardly  know  what  was, 
they  was  so  new  and  queer  to  me, 
not  bein'  used  to  'em,  you  know. 
She  talked  a  good  deal ;  but  I  did  n't 
take  much  notice  of  the  words,  I 
was  so  took  up  with  her  softly  voice 
and  the  things  she  was  cloin'  to  me. 

o 

But  I  know7  she  kep'  say  in'  over  'n' 
over,  "  If  you  could  only  'a'  got  here 
afore  she  went !  If  you  could  only 

J  ^ 

'a'  got  here  !  " 

I  tried  to  say  somethin' ;  but  some 
ways  my  throat  was  all  dry,  and 
'fore  I  could  get  out  any  words,  she 
says,  "  Oh,  I  know  you  could  n't,  you 
poor  dear  creatur',  and  she  knew  it 


28  Ait nt  Lief}1. 

too.  She  wanted  you  dreadful  bad,'' 
she  says,  the  tears  a  runnin'  down 
her  pretty,  old,  wrinkled  face  ;  %>  but 
she  knew  you  could  n't  get  here, 
and  most  the  very  last  word  she 
spoke  wras  your  name,  my  dear." 

Well,  that  finished  me.  Up  to 
that  time  I  had  n't  cried  any  myself. 
I  don't  b'lieve  I  knew  how  exactly, 
never  havin'  done  it  sence  I  was  a 
baby.  But  now  I  found  the  water 
fallin'  out  o'  my  eyes  like  rain. 
Mebbe  't  was  because  I  knew  't  was 
all  a  mistake ;  mebbe  again  owin' 
to  my  half-believin'  'twas  real  and 
true  after  all,  and  somebody  was 
layin'  dead  that  had  set  by  me  so  that 
she  'd  wanted  me  dreadful,  and  said 
over  my  name  with  her  last  breath 
most.  Anyway  I  cried  and  cried 
and  cried.  I  'd  'a'  said  afore  that,  if 
anybody  'd  asked  me,  that  it  must 


Aunt  Liefy.  29 

hurt  to  cry,  that  I  shouldn't  like  it; 
but — I  did.  It  seemed  to  help  me, 
and  rest  me,  and  comfort  me,  to  make 
me  difTent  from  what  I  'd  ever  been 
afore  in  all  my  life,  —  more  like  other 
folks,  and  jest  a  little  mite  like  the 
white-haired  old  woman  and  the 
people  outside  with  that  sorry  look 
on  their  featurs. 

I  don't  know  how  long  't  was, 
mebbe  only  a  few  minutes,  mebbe 
more,  but  arter  a  spell  anyway,  we 
went  out  o'  that  little  bed-room  and 
into  the  setting-room.  It  was  shet 
up  and  dark  like,  and  I  could  n't 
see  much  at  fust.  They  put  me  into 
a  seat ;  and  pretty  soon  I  found  there 
was  lots  of  folks  round  me.  There 
was  chairs  in  rows,  and  people  in 
'em ;  and  there  was  a  somethin', 
black  and  strange,  covered  and  shet 
up  and  still,  and  I  knew  without  bein' 


30  Aunt  Liefy. 

told  that  she  they  'd  said  had  wanted 
me,  and  set  by  me,  and  spoke  about 
me  up  to  the  very  last,  was  layin' 
there.  My  old  woman  was  settin' 
close  by  me  ;  and  when  she  see  my 
eyes  fixed  on  that,  she  says  in  a 
whisper,  "  I  wish  you  could  'a'  seen 
her,  she  was  so  peaceful  and  pleasant- 
lookin'  and  nat'ral.  But  you  know 
how  't  was,  and  that  we  could  n't 
wait." 

So  I  wasn't  goin'  to  see  her,  even 
this  way !  I  should  n't  ever  know 
how  she  looked,  livin'  or  dead. 
Well,  I  was  n't  exactly  sorry.  I 
most  dreaded  the  idee  of  seein'  her; 
for  fear  somehow  I  might  be  disap- 
p'inted.  For  I  'd  got  a'ready  a  notion 
of  my  own  about  her,  from  what  the 
dear  old  woman  told  me,  and  things 
I  heerd  whispered  round  as  we  set 
waitin'. 


Aunt  Liefy.  31 

Then  somebody  says,  "  Here  's  the 
minister,"  and  an  old  man  come  up 
to  me.  I  looked  up  at  him  ;  I  had  n't 
ever  seen  jest  sech  a  face  afore,  or 
if  I  had  it  had  n't  made  much  im 
pression  on  me.  'T  was  n't  exactly 
sorry,  but  's  if  it  had  been  jver'n' 
over  again,  and  knew  all  about  it ; 
and  there  was  a  look  as  if  he  was 
hopin'  somethin'  real  hard,  and  lottin' 
on  gettin'  it  too,  —  a  kind  of  shinin' 
in  his  eyes  and  a  still  sort  of  look 
jest  round  his  mouth.  He  took  hold 
of  my  hand,  and  he  said  somethin'. 
It  don't  seem  as  if  I  heerd  the  words, 
each  one  on  'em  ;  but  I  gathered  lots 
o'  meanin'  out  of  it  somehow,  and 
I  knew  that  he  was  dreadful  sorry 
for  me,  but  glad  enough  for  her, 
though  I  could  n't  hardly  see  why  jest 
then,  and  I  see  too  that  he  knew 
I  was  goin'  to  be  glad  too,  some  day. 


?2  Aunt  Liejy. 

Well,  the  fun'ral  begun  and  went 
on.  I  disremember  whether  or  no 
I  'd  ever  been  to  a  fun'ral  afore  ;  but 
I  'd  seen  'em  go  by,  of  course,  and 
thought  I  knew  all  about  'em.  But 
this  was  n't  a  bit  like  what  I  'd  con 
ceited.  I  can't  tell  you  jest  how 
't  was  diff'ent ;  mebbe  one  thinsf  was 

O 

I  was  diff'ent,  even  in  that  short 
spell.  Things  the  minister  read  or 
spoke,  though  I  'd  heerd  some  of  'em 
afore  in  meetin'  and  elsewheres,  got 
to  meanin'  somethin'  now  when  I 
was  listen  in'  so  close  to  find  out 
somethin'  about  her  that  laid  there, 
and  whether  there  was  any  chance 
of  my  seein'  her  some  day.  And 
when  he  prayed,  —  well,  I  'd  seen 
folks  pray,  time  and  again,  but  did  n't 
think  of  its  meanin'  much  of  any- 

* 

thin' ;  and  as  for  prayin'  myself  I 
didn't  s'pose  I  knew  how.  P'r'aps  I 


Aunt  Liefy.  33 

didn't  and  \va'  n't  prayin'  then;  but 
I  was  secondin'  evYv  single  thinsf 

^  O  O 

the  old  minister  said,  and  hopin'  with 
all  my  heart  and  mind  and  body 
they  'd  come  true.  Ain't  that  a  kind 
of  prayin'  ?  And  somebody  else  said 
somethin';  and  they  sung  things 
softly,  and  prayed  again.  And  in 
ev'ry  single  thing  I  could  see  they 
thought  she  that  laid  there  b'longed 
to  me  more  'n  to  anybody  else,  and 
that  I  was  the  sorriest  of  any  one 
there.  They  prayed  for  me  more  'n 
all  the  rest ;  they  talked  about  me, 
not  by  name,  but  "  our  sister,"  they 
says,  "  her  that  \s  so  sorely  afflicted," 
"  she  that  was  so  closely  bound  up 
with  her  that  's  gone,"  and  things 
like  that.  Oh,  I  can't  begin  to  tell 
you  what  't  was  to  me  to  be,  for  the 
fust  time  in  all  my  days,  right  in 
the  middle  of  things,  'stead  of  alone 


34  Aunt  Liefy. 

outside ;  with  folks  all  lovin'  me 
and  bein'  sorry  for  me  and  askin'  for 
things  to  happen  to  me.  I  could  n't. 
I  jest  could  n't  put  a  stop  to  it 
all  by  ownin'  up  't  was  a  mistake 
somehow. 

And  then  we  went  to  the  little 
buryin'-ground.  'T  was  close  by,  and 
folks  walked ;  and  I  was  ahead  of  all, 
and  closest  to  her.  I  can  see  it  all 
so  plain,  for  I  b'lieve  't  was  the  fust 
out-o'-doors  thing  I  'd  ever  really 
looked  at,  —  in  a  takin '-notice  way,  I 
mean.  The  trees  —  there  was  a  lot 
of  'em  round  —  was  all  bright  and 
gay-lookin'  with  their  red  and  yeller 
and  browny  leaves,  and  the  sky  was 
all  blue  with  little  white  clouds 
strimmered  over  it.  There  was  ever 
so  many  posies  grovvin'  in  the  paths, 
gold'nrod  —  I  'd  learnt  that  name 
a'ready  —  and  purple  blooms  mixed 


Aunt  Liefy.  35 

in  with  'em,  and  the  air  was  full  of 
a  minty,  spicy  sort  o'  smell  from 
yarbs  in  the  grass.  And  up  in  a 
tree,  jest  over  the  place  they  'd 
dug  her  grave,  set  a  little  bird  a- 
singin'  's  loud  and  sweet 's  he  could 
sing. 

Then  the  minister  said  some 
words,  —  sing'lar,  wonderful  sort  o' 
words  they  'peared  to  me  then, 
in  fact  they  do  now,  —  and  they  laid 
her  down  there.  And  the  sun  was 
a-shinin' ;  there  was  a  bumble-bee 
buzzin'  about  the  posies,  and  a  butter 
fly  lightin'  on  'em.  And  up  in  the 
maple,  'mongst  the  red  leaves,  that 
little  bird  was  singin'  with  all  his 
might  and  main.  There  was  some 
tears  o'  course  ;  but  folks  kep'  smilin' 
through  'em  till  they  was  more  like 
rainbows. 

Why,  thinks  I  to  myself,  'tain'tlike 


}6  Aunt  Liefy. 

a    fun'rai    one    bit ;     it 's    more    like 
plantin'  a  flower. 

And  then  they  all  come  round 
me,  jest  me  ;  the  women,  the  men,  the 
children,  and  ev'ry  one  had  somethin' 
to  say  about  her  that  was  gone,  and 
what  she  'd  been  to  'em  all,  what  she 
was  to  me  and  me  to  her.  There 
was  an  old  blind  man  she  'd  took 
care  of  and  read  to,  and  some  little 
orphan  children  she  'd  mothered  and 
done  for ;  and  there  was  friends 
she  'd  been  friend  to,  and  meetin'- 
folks  she  'd  worked  with  in  doin' 
good  and  --  all  of  a  sudden  it  all 
come  over  me  what  she  must  a 
been  and  how  I  'd  heerd  of  her 
too  late ;  and  then  I  thought  o'  my 
lonesome,  dried-up,  good-for-nothin' 
life  all  ahind  me,  and  how  difFent 
't  would  'a1  been  if  she  'd  really 
b'longed  to  me,  as  these  folks  all 


Aunt  Liefy.  57 

thought  she  clone,  and  seemed  's  if  I 
could  n't  bear  it.  Sech  a  sorrer  and 
longin'  and  mournin'  and  grief  come 
rollin'  over  me,  like  waves  o'  the  sea, 
and  I  see  I  'd  never  had  any  real 
trouble  or  grief  or  loss  afore  in 
my  life.  Oh,  what  was  it  for? 
What  did  it  mean  ?  How  was  I 
goin'  to  bear  it  anyhow? 

They  see  I  was  givin'  way,  and 
one  after  'nother  begun  to  tell  me 
things  she  VI  said  about  me,  word 
she  'd  sent  to  me.  "  She  said  she  'd 
be  watchin'  for  you  till  you  come," 
says  one,  most  in  a  whisper.  "  She 
told  me,"  says  another,  "  to  tell  you 
not  to  feel  bad  you  could  n't  get  here 
to  take  care  of  her,  '  For '  says  she,  '  if 
you  '11  on'y  take  care  o'  somebody 
else  that 's  sick  or  lonesome  't  will 
be  jest  the  same  's  doin'  it  for  me.' " 
And  a  little  gal,  with  yeller  curls 


$8  Aunt  Liefy. 

and  sech  a  soft  face,  reached  up,  and 
bays  in  the  littlest  whisper,  "  She  told 
me  to  give  you  this.''  And  she 
kissed  me.  I  never  d  been  kissed 
afore. 

And  then  the  old  minister,  he  kind 
of  drawed  me  to  one  side  and  he 
says,  "  She  asked  me  over  and  over, 
afore  she  died,  to  tell  you  this,  that 
she  forgive  you  everything  if  there 
was  anythin'  to  forgive,  and  that 
you  must  n't  mourn  and  fret  thinkin' 
mebbe  you  was  one  cause  of  her 
dyin' ;  for  even  if  you  was,  she  was 
glad,  and  more  'n  glad,  to  lay  down 
her  life  for  you." 


Aunt  Liefy. 


III. 

1    CAN'T  hardly  rec'lect  how  I  got 
away  from  'em  all,  and  from  that 
grave    and    the   little    buryin'-ground, 
and  found  my  \vav  back  to  the  station. 

J  *> 

I  on'y  know  I  did  n't  tell  'em  't  all 
't  was  a  mistake,  but  come  away  with 
out  ownin'  up  anythin'.  I  took  the 
cars  back  to  Hilton.  I  see  so  many 
thino's  out  of  the  winder  I  had  n't 

O 

took  notice  of  that  mornin'.  There 
was  gold'nrod  all  'long  side  the  way, 
-  her  fav'rite  flower ;  with  the  sun  a 
shinin'  on  it  and  the  cars  goin'  by  so 
quick,  it  made  the  roads  look  like  the 
golden  streets  the  minister  'd  talked 
about.  And  I  see  little  buryin'- 
Sfrounds  with  oreen  craves  and  white 

£j  O  O 


^o  Aunt  Liejy. 

stones  that  made  me  think  of  where 
she  was  layin'.  And  when  we  stopped, 
sometimes  I  'd  hear  a  bird  like  that 
one  up  in  the  maple-tree.  There  was 
a  little  gal  in  the  car  with  yeller  curls, 
like  the  one  that  kissed  me,  and  I 
found  myself  a-smilin'  at  her,  and  she 
smiled  back  to  me. 

And  when  I  got  out  at  my  station 
and  was  walkin'  up  the  village  street 
to  the  red  house,  things  looked  diff'ent 
from  what  they  ever  done  afore.  I 

j 

see  I  was  walkin'  on  red  and  yeller 
leaves  that  looked  pretty  and  made  a 
rustlin'  sort  of  noise  as  I  stepped  on 
'em,  jest 's  they  done  's  I  stood  in  the 
little  buryin'-ground  where  we  laid 

j  O 

her.  And  there  was  little  white 
houses  along  the  street,  somethin'  like 
the  one  where  I  'd  been,  and  where  I 
s'pose  she'd  lived;  and  I  begun  to 
wonder  if  there  was  anybody  resem- 


Aunt  Liefy.  41 

blin'  her  livin'  in  these.  I  never 'd 
wondered  much  about  folks  afore, 
did  n't  take  any  interest  in  'em. 

And  jest  'fore  I  got  to  my  house  I 
see  a  woman  comin'.  She  had  a  black 
dress  on,  and  's  I  looked  at  her  I 
rec'lected  she  was  a  neighbor  o'  mine, 
and  that  I  'd  heerd  she  'd  lost  her  on'y 
child,  a  little  boy,  a  spell  back.  All 
of  a  sudden  I  'peared  to  know  what 
that  meant,  and  see  the  coffin,  and 
him  a-layin'  in  it,  and  the  folks  all 
together,  and  I  heerd  the  minister's 
voice  sayin'  them  wonderful  words ; 
and  'fore  I  knew  what  I  was  doin'  I 
held  out  my  hand  to  her  and  I  heerd 
my  own  voice  a-sayin\  "  I  'm  dreadful 
sorry  for  you." 

She  looked  into  my  face  's  if  she 
had  n't  ever  see  it  afore,  —  I  s'pose  it 
looked  diff'ent  somehow,  with  my 
eyes  all  swelly  and  red,  —  and  she 


42  Aunt  Liefy. 

says,  with  the  tears  a-comin'  fast. 
"  Thank  ye,  thank  ye  !  I  see  you  Ve 
met  with  a  loss  yourself,  Miss  Staples, 
and  that  makes  you  feel  for  me." 

I  wa'  n't  tellin1  a  lie,  was  I,  when  I 
says,  "  I  have,  I  have,  and  I  do  feel 
for  you  ! "  For  I  had  lost  all  I  ever 
had  in  my  hull  life,  and  jest 's  quick  's 
I  knew  I  had  it,  too. 

Now,  't  is  n't  scurcely  the  thing  for 
me  to  tell  the  rest ;  I  don't  hardly 
know  how  to  say  it.  You  asked  me 
to  tell  you  how  't  was  I  changed 
about  so.  as  folks  told  you  I  clone,  — 
from  a  lonesome,  unfeelin',  unreligious 
woman,  not  havin'  a  mite  of  interest 
in  anybody,  nor  them  havin'  any  in 
me,  to  somethin'  diff'ent.  And  I  Ve 
told  you  all  I  know  about  what  fetched 
about  the  change. 

1  never  knew  anvthin'  more  about 

•> 

that  fun'ral,  nor   the  one    we    buried 


Annt  Liefy.  43 

that  clay,  nor  what  I  was  to  her  nor 
her  to  me.  I  was  afraid  to  find  out, 
so  I  never  asked  any  questions,  nor 
went  back  to  that  station,  nor  looked 
in  the  papers  to  see  who  was  dead 
there.  As  long  's  I  did  n't  really  know 
the  particulars,  nor  who  they  took  me 
for,  and  why  they  took  me  for  her, 
why  there  was  n't  any  harm,  was  there, 
in  my  feelin'  she  was  mine  now,  let 
alone  what  she  'd  been  afore  ;  that  that 
was  my  grave  to  think  on  and  mourn 
over,  and,  what's  more,  hope  about? 
Tennerate  I  clone  it ;  and  small  credit 
to  me  that  it  fetched  me  some  o;ood, 

ci> 

and  made  me  alter  my  old,  hateful 
ways.  For  it  stands  to  reas'n  that 
havin'  a  sorrer  myself  —  and  'twas 
one,  though  mebbe  you  can't  see  how 
-made  me  notice  other  folks's  trou 
bles  and  feel  for  'em  and  try  to  help 
'em,  as  I  was  helped. 


44  Aunt  Liefy. 

And  hearin'  what  she  liked  and  set 
by,  posies  and  sech,  made  me  begin 
to  notice  and  get  fond  on  'em  myself. 
And  that's  how  my  gardin  got  to 


what  't  was  when  you  fust  see  it,  and 
my  winders  and  porch  so  rhock  full 
of  growin'  things.  And  of  course 
you  see  now  how  I  took  to  feedin' 
them  birds  that  you  was  so  struck 


Aunt  Liefy.  45 

with,  comin'  round  the  steps  and 
pickin'  up  my  crumbs  and  seeds, 
lightin'  on  me  and  all  that;  that  was 
owin',  you  see,  to  that  little  bird 
a-singin'  in  the  red  maple  over  her 
grave.  I  never  forgot  him,  the  peart 
little  fellow,  singin'  and  singin'  away 
with  all  his  might  and  main  's  if  he 
knew  somethin'  good  was  goin'  to 
happen.  And  them  queer  folks  you 
used  to  watch  a-comin'  in  my  gate 
and  hangin'  round  there,  —  old  lame 
Jesse  and  foolish  Nance  and  that  lit 
tle  rickety  Dan  with  the  hump  on  his 
poor  little  back,  —  why  I  had  them 
come  and  done  for  'em,  on'y  jest 
'cause  she  done  that  kind  of  thing, 
they  said.  'T  wa' n't  nothin'  'riginal 
on  my  part,  that  \va'  n't, — jest  copyin' 
her,  you  see. 

That  was  why  I  took  to  nussin'  the 
sick  and  all  that ;  and  that 's  how  they 


46  Aunt  Liefy. 

come  to  take  to  callin'  me  Aunt  Relief, 
and  then  Aunt  Liefy,  'stead  o'  Miss 
Staples. 

The  other  part  —  't  ain't  for  me  to 
say  a  word  about  that ;  Some  One 
else  done  it,  if  't  is  done.  It 's  reas'n- 
able,  ain't  it,  that  I  should  take  some 
kind  of  int'rest  in  what  made  this 
friend  of  mine  I  had  n't  ever  see  the 
sort  of  person  they  made  her  out; 
and  that  I  should  study  up  about 
that,  and  about  those  sing'lar  words 
the  minister  used  at  the  fun'ral,  and 
about  the  place  where  she  'd  gone  to, 
and  'bove  and  over  all  what  chance 
there  was  of  my  gettin'  to  see  her, 
after  a  spell.  And  fmdin'  out  con- 
cernin'  all  them  things,  why  of  course 
I  found  out  more  'n  I  was  lookin'  for. 
You  see,  the  one  thing  that  had 
worked  on  me  most  that  day  was 
hearin'  she  'd  forgive  me  things  ;  for  I 


Aunt  Liefy.  47 

had  n't  ever  been  forgive  anythin'  in 
my  hull  life,  —  not  to  know  it,  I  mean. 
And  somehow  I  did  n't  dwell  on  that 
part  about  my  havin'  done  anythin'  to 
bring  about  her  death,  as  much  's  I 
did  on  what  she  said  about  bein'  glad 
and  more  'n  glad  to  lay  down  her  life 
for  me.  That  was  the  one  thing  I  guess 
I  thought  of  most,  comin'  home  that 
day  from  her  buryin'  and  arterwards. 
Any  one  that  set  by  me  enough  to  be 
glad  to  lay  their  life  down  on  my 
account,  it  seemed  too  sing'lar  to  take 
in,  and  's  if  it  could  n't  act'lly  be. 
Well,  it  don't  seem  a  mite  less  sing'lar 
now;  but  I  Ve  found  it  could  act'lly 
be! 

So  I  'm  jest  a-goin'  on  all  the  time 
now  as  if  I  'd  had  folks.  It 's  most 's 
if  I  'd  had,  you  see.  I  Ve  got  a  grave 
anyhow,  in  a  little  sweet,  minty,  spicy- 
smellin'  buryin'-ground  full  o'  posies, 


48  Aunt  Liefy. 

gold'nrod  and  sech  ;  and  I  've  got  mes 
sages  some  one  left  for  me,  —  word  she 
sent,  —  and  I  'm  follerin'  'em  and  doin' 
'em  's  well  's  I  can.  And  I  Ve  been 
once  in  my  life  to  a  fun'ral  that  was 
more  to  me  than  to  any  one  else 
there,  where  I  was  prayed  for  and 
comforted  and  pitied  and  set  by.  It 's 
most  's  if  I  'd  had  folks,  don't  you 
think  so  ?  That 's  what  I  hold. 

And  I  don't  see  how  I  done  any 
body  any  harm  by  not  tellin'  't  was  all 
a  mistake  and  I  was  took  for  somebody 
else.  If  I  was,  why  I  guess  the  right 
one  got  along  a  spell  arterward  and 
got  the  same  comfort  out  of  it  I  did, 
and  mebbe  more.  So  't  did  n't  hurt 
her. 

And    there  's   one    thinsf   can't    be 

o 

took  from  me.  There  was  somebody 
lay  there  that  day,  whether  she  was 
anythin'  to  me  afore  all  that  or  not; 


Aunt  Liefy.  49 

and  I  know  what  she  'd  been  from 
what  folks  said  about  her;  and  I  know 
where  she  's  gone  from  what  she  was 
and  b'lieved  and  said.  So  there  ain't 
no  manner  o'  harm,  and  you  can't 
make  me  think  there  is,  in  my  lookin' 
forrard  to  seein'  her  one  of  these  days, 
and  pretty  soon  now.  And  when  I 
do  see  her,  why,  I  sha'n't  have  to  go 
into  a  long  explainin'  and  showin' 
how  it  come  about,  and  why  I  did  n't 
own  up  that  day  she  was  buried. 
She  '11  see  it  in  a  minute,  if  she  ain't 
seen  it  a'ready  ;  and  that  if  I  ain't 
that  one  she  'd  set  by  so  long  and  that 
had  set  by  her,  I  'm  the  one  that 's 
jest  lived  for  her  ever  sence,  and  tried 
to  copy  her  and  act  like  her,  and  love 
the  ones  she  loved,  and  do  for  the 
ones  she  done  for,  and,  partic'lar, 
that's  tried  to  get  herself  ready  and 
fit  to  be  let  in  to  see  her  some  day. 
3 


50  Aunt  Liefy. 

And  I  know  cert'in  sure  that  there  's 
Some  One  else  up  there  that  '11  under 
stand  all  about  it  too,  without  my  tell- 
in';  and  He  '11  know  what  't  was  to 
me  to  think  of  a  buryin'  spot  filled 
with  sweet  spices,  in  a  place  like  a 
gardin  o'  posies,  and  of  some  one  lay- 
in'  there  for  a  spell,  —  some  one  that 
had  set  by  me  so  much  that  she  'd  'a' 
been  glad  and  more  'n  glad  to  lay 
down  her  life  for  me. 


THE    END. 


13u  tije  Same 


FISHIN'  JIMMY.  By  ANNIE  TRUM- 
HULL  SI.OSSON,  with  Illustrations  by 
G.  F-R.,  and  H.  F.  B.  i6mo,  cloth, 
60  cents. 

"A  type  of  the  simple-hearted  New  Eng- 
lander,  in  whom  the  religious  principle  works 
out  its  divine  mission  in  the  development  of 
character  along  the  lines  of  an  ordinary  human 
life. 

"  It  is  a  story  of  simple  faith  and  duty,  from 
which  lessons  of  wisdom  and  charity  may  be 
learned." 

ANSON    D.   F.   RANDOLPH    &   CO. 
182  FIKTII  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 


A     000  548  220     3 


